So Pahóm was well contented, and everything would have been right if the neighbouring peasants would only not have trespassed on his cornfields and meadows. He appealed to them most civilly, but they still went on: now the Communal herdsmen would let the village cows stray into his meadows; then horses from the night pasture would get among his corn. Pahóm turned them out again and again, and forgave their owners, and for a long time he forbore from prosecuting anyone. But at last he lost patience and complained to the District Court. He knew it was the peasants’ want of land, and no evil intent on their part, that caused the trouble; but he thought:
“I cannot go on overlooking it, or they will destroy all I have. They must be taught a lesson.”
So he had them up, gave them one lesson, and then another, and two or three of the peasants were fined. After a time Pahóm’s neighbours began to bear him a grudge for this, and would now and then let their cattle on to his land on purpose. One peasant even got into Pahóm’s wood at night and cut down five young lime trees for their bark. Pahóm passing through the wood one day noticed something white. He came nearer, and saw the stripped trunks lying on the ground, and close by stood the stumps, where the tree had been. Pahóm was furious.
“If he had only cut one here and there it would have been bad enough,” thought Pahóm, “but the rascal has actually cut down a whole clump. If I could only find out who did this, I would pay him out.”
He racked his brains as to who it could be. Finally he decided: “It must be Simon—no one else could have done it.” So he went to Simon’s homestead to have a look round, but he found nothing, and only had an